from the neatly trimmed hedgerows to the recently harvested fields. Even the cottages were brightly whitewashed with fresh thatching on the roofs. Stefan would demand no less than perfection. Which was why he was considered one of the finest landlords in the entire realm.
Edmond was surprised, however, to realize he could vividly recall every curve in the road, every tiny stream that cut through the rolling pastures, and every towering oak that lined the long path to the house. He recalled playing pirates with Stefan on the glittering lake in the distance, having picnics with his adoring parents in the Grotto, even hiding from his tutor in the large conservatory.
His heart clenched with a bittersweet pain that only intensified as he cantered past the ivy-covered tower gate and his gaze fell upon the rambling, stone house that had been the crowning glory of the countryside for two hundred and fifty years.
Perched at the end of a tree-lined drive much of the foundation of the great house was still from the original Norman stonework, a testament to the excellent craftsmanship. There were twelve impressive bays that boasted sash windows and stone balustrades that lined the roof. The previous Duke had added a Portrait Gallery and the woodland gardens had been expanded to include several fountains created for his mother by Russian artists, but the overall image remained one of solid, ageless English beauty.
Behind the main house, the stable block was a handsome structure that maintained much of its rustic beauty with numerous wooden stalls and carved pillars. In the past the stables had housed the local villagers when the plague had swept through the country, providing a sanctuary from the ravaging death. These days, however, the building had been returned to its traditional purpose, housing the extensive collection of Huntley horses that were praised in the Sporting Magazine and sought after by foxhunters all over England.
As a youth, Edmond had loved the scent of the stables, often hiding in the hayloft to avoid the tedious lectures of his tutor or, as he grew older, to enjoy a bit of privacy with a willing maid.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Edmond sternly dismissed the memories that threatened to overwhelm him. He hadn’t returned to England to dredge up the ugly past. Or to waste his time brooding on what might have been.
He was here for Stefan.
Nothing more.
Edmond angled his horse toward the side entrance, hoping to avoid the fanfare that always occurred on the rare occasions he made an appearance at his ancestral seat. Later he would make sure he managed to greet the large staff he considered more family than servants, but for now he wanted to assure himself that Stefan was safe. Then he needed to find a trustworthy ally who could tell him the truth of what had been happening here in Surrey.
He managed to slip through the double French doors and make his way through the small study that his brother had confiscated to use for his private art studio. The satinwood furnishings had been shifted to a distant corner, leaving space on the Persian carpet for a stack of canvases and a wooden tripod. Even the pretty green and ivory striped curtains that perfectly matched the wall panels were now folded and stacked on his mother’s writing desk. A smile touched Edmond’s lips. It was a ridiculous waste of space, considering Stefan had managed to create nothing more than a handful of truly ghastly landscapes in the past twenty years.
With a shake of his head, he crossed through the adjoining music room before being caught by the thin, silver-haired butler who was hovering near the marble staircase, as if sensing someone had invaded his domain.
For the briefest moment, a hint of confusion touched the servant’s sharply carved face, as if wondering why the Duke of Huntley would be sneaking through the house like a thief, before realization struck.
Even servants who had known Stefan and Edmond all their lives found it difficult to tell them apart at a glance.
“My lord,” he breathed in shock, hurrying forward with a rare smile curving his lips. “What a delightful surprise.”
Edmond readily returned the smile. Goodson was a genuine treasure, always efficient, well-organized and in ruthless control of the vast staff. His true talent, however, was his ability to maintain the sense of calm peace that so pleased Stefan.
There was never, ever anything to disturb the serenity of Meadowland. No sounds of squabbling servants, no upheavals from unwanted guests who were firmly, but diplomatically, turned from the door, no awkward unpleasantness during the rare social events that were held at the grand house.
He was, all in all, the perfect butler.
“Thank you, Goodson,” Edmond said. “I am shockingly pleased to be here.”
“It is always good to come home,” Goodson replied, able to hide the least hint of reproach at Edmond’s lengthy absence.
The staff would never fully resign themselves to Edmond’s preference for living in Russia. To them he was an Englishman, regardless of his mother’s blood, and a duke’s son. His place was at Meadowland, not some strange, foreign land.
“Yes, I suppose it is. Is the Duke at home?”
“He is in his study. Do you wish me to announce you?”
Of course Stefan was in his study. If his diligent brother was not overseeing the work in the fields he was always in his study.
“No, despite my advancing years, I believe I can still remember my way.”
Goodson gave a dignified nod. “I will have Mrs. Slater bring you a tray there.”
Edmond’s mouth watered at the mere thought. He had eaten the food of the most famous chefs in the world, but none could compare to Mrs. Slater’s simple English fare.
“Will you ask her to include her famous seed cakes? I haven’t had a decent one in years.”
“There is no need to ask,” Goodson assured him dryly. “The woman will be so delighted to have you returned to Meadowland, she will not be satisfied until she manages to produce every dish you have claimed to prefer since you were in shortcoats.”
“At this moment I believe I could eat them all.” Edmond turned toward the steps only to sharply turn back toward the hovering servant. “Goodson.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“My brother happened to mention in one of his letters that Mr. Howard Summerville was visiting his mother.”
“I believe he and his family did stay several weeks with Mrs. Summerville, sir.”
There was nothing to be detected in the bland tones, but Edmond did not doubt the servant knew the precise day Howard arrived in Surrey as well as the exact moment of his departure. It would, after all, be the valet’s unpleasant duty to ensure the sponger did not manage to slip past his guard and trouble the Duke with his tedious pleas for money.
“How many weeks?”
“He arrived six days before Christmas and did not leave until the twelfth of September.”
“Rather odd for a gentleman devoted to the delights of town to leave London for such a protracted length of time, was it not, Goodson?”
“Very odd, unless one believes in village gossip.”
“And what village gossip would that be?”
